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Mewarmy of Rohan: A Hero's Saga.
Introduction King Mew, Sword of Rohan , the Bringer of Dawn, Elf-Friend and member of the White Council is a warrior of renown. Once one of the richest men, his armouries stretched through entireties of halls, gleaming with the shine of polished mithril. His kill count was among the highest of all the free peoples, striking fear into the ranks of evil. What was the secret to his success? His wealth brought an undisputed advantage over everyone he faced. He had a wide variety of weapons at his disposal; his walls were lined with bows, spears, swords and shields each enchanted with the blessing of the Valar and the White Council . Mew is a fabled leader, who is trusted and respected by all his subjects and by the majority of the server population. He has led his faction and friends to countless victories over evil, achieving many accolades and has become a feared player and a God of War. A Hero's Saga Who would've thought that one of the most powerful of the free peoples would wake up in the most unlikely of places... The peaceful Shire, with it's trees full of blossom, graceful streams and friendly people. He awoke with little memory, only a sword on him, "ValaBrandr", the sword of the Valar, and a book, a book that contained the location of his grandfather's tomb. The young adventurer helped out the natives of the Shire, the short and stout, but friendly hobbits. The hobbits valued him greatly, he was a skilled blacksmith, taught by the Blue Dwarves Smurfs of Ered Nimrais; a skilled hunter and tracker who played a major part introducing cows to the peoples of the Shire; and so were greatly saddened to hear of his departure, to reclaim his grandfather's wealth that was stowed deep into the misty, Barrow Downs. Some Hobbits trembled of the thought of Mew leaving the borders of their realm to the dangers beyond, but some.. Some decided to go with him, 30 young Hobbits all in all, armed with only daggers and slings, set off with him on his quest of reclamation. Within a day of travelling they set up base camp, a beautiful campsite in the Old Forest, on a cliff overlooking a river. The Hobbits set off to work, hunting for food in the forest, in groups; ever weary of the trees. Before long the camp, was thriving, the Hobbits feasting while Mew worked out a plan for the dangerous journey ahead. Night fell. Silently spreading a veil of darkness over the now quiet camp. The trees moaned and creaked in the wind. There was a terrible crash, as a tree awoke. Hobbits sprang out of their tents, collecting their arms and forming ranks, as the tree lumbered into the middle of their camp. But alas? Where was Mew? The Hobbits now panicking, worrying for the whereabouts of their friend and their lives. The Hobbits let out a volley with their slings, achieving naught but felling leaves from the branches. The hobbits fell to a retreat, frantically running towards the river that was blocked off by the sheer face of the cliff below. The Hobbits, now treading on the precipice above the torrents of the river below; cowering from the terror before them. The tree was upon them, lifting his arm like branch in preparation for a fell swipe that would knock the hobbits into the torrents of the river below; when tongues of flame consumed the tree and spurred it into madness. Fumes of smoke concealed the camp and hid the source of the racket inside. Minutes passed, the Hobbits, fearfully clutching one another's arms; had no interest in delving into the smoke to inquire. At last there was a terrible sigh; the death of tree or attacker? The Hobbits were trembling with anxiety. Were they safe? Was that terrible being dead? At last, a faint glint of light could be seen through the slowly departing smoke. The glint turned into a sword, the bearer a shadowy figure taking strides towards them. Mew! Of course it was Mew! He had been out on a reconnaissance of the path ahead and had turned back hearing the fell cries of the Huorn, and the panicking Hobbits. He had rushed back, set fire to his foe and buried his sword, ValaBrandr, into the tree trunk and felled his foe. The Hobbits cheered and made themselves merry. Mew decided it was a good idea to better train and arm his followers. From the steaming pile of logs that remained, Mew had pulled out all sticks worthy of being crafted into longbows, and kept the strongest, yet lightest stick for himself. The small party assembled bows, delved deep into caves in search of metals, ever learning the deep and wise craftmanship of their leader, Mew. Each hobbit was armed with a deadly spear, and a sturdy shortbow and steel chestplates and steel chainmail coifs; a far superior armament than their piddly daggers, incompetent slingshots and peasant rags. For days the camp was a sight of rigorous training, hunting and planning. At last they were ready for their expedition to the Barrow Downs. They abandoned their camp and marched through the treacherous woods unopposed. Dusk fell and the party arrived at the edge of the forest. Fear struck the Hobbit's Hearts. The misty Barrows were under the influence of evil. The air was chilled and the birds did not sing here. Mew seemed unaffected by this evil presence and cheered up the hearts of his company, and led them down from the forest into the valleys below. Dark shadows wandered the hilltops. Yes the shadows moved, haunting these lands and guarding it's treasures. The shadows watched, but did not approach. Nay! The shadows were fearful of Mew. A bold, brave warrior leading a troop of Hobbits was a daunting sight indeed. Mew navigated the company through a maze of Barrows until finally coming accross his objective. A tomb adorned with gold, and a shiny silver coloured metal. True-silver! Mithril! The prized possessions of the Dwarven Kingdoms, stronger than steel, yet light to behold. The tomb door read: "Here lies Leofed of the Rohirrim." Mew crept through the door, and became aware of the presence of a spirit. It was not a Barrow-wight, as one would expect, but one of the Valar. The deity spoke only a few words before vanishing: "The answer to all is found, where light is not abound, through dungeons of dark, you'll find your mark, you'll clear your name; else die in Morgoth's Halls of old." Mew trembled at these words, he knew of the place that was spoken. The perilous pits of Utumno. Silently, he bowed before his fathers coffin, then turned to the mounted treasures on the walls. Armours, weapons: all shining with the enchantments of the Valar and forged from mithril. He adorned the most decorated armour, the armour of his forefathers: the once honorable Rohirrim, heirs to the throne, yet doomed to be exiled. Leothed's armour then his father's before him. A valuable heirloom that was used to vanquish many foes. Mew checked over everything in the room, taking note of the inventory there when he stumbled accross a cloak, with golden embroidery of the emblems of Rohan. Mew equipped the luxurious cloak, the silk of which was still soft. With this final action, he left the tomb and locked it. While reciting the words of the Vala in his head, Mew addressed his followers and announced that he was to go on a dangerous expedition, to find answers, and clear his families name. The Hobbits showed no sign of reluctance; their leader had inspired them, trained them and kept them together: they would follow him... To whatever end. The Bringer of Dawn. Mew sat on a rock, staring into the dwindling flames of his campfire. It was now 3 years since he left the Hobbits at their camp to venture on his own. Over this time Mew had seen much; from the Ered Luin in the west, to the Oroccarni in the East, to the Jungles of the south. He stood up ere the break of dawn. He brushed himself down scattering the crumbs of his evening meal. Wearily, with no joy in his step he mounted his horse and rode down into the Vales of Anduin towards the ancient Eotheod city of Framsburg. Yes people still dwelled here, they endured the constant attacks from the orcs of Gundabad who burnt and pillaged villages and captured livestock. A small host of guardsman could be seen assembled near the great gates of the city. Archers manned the battlements, ready to defy any attacker who tried to challenge their walls. A sheet of black engulfed the sky, blotching out the sun. Crude warhorns were blown; the guardsmen trembled at their sound. Hordes of orcs scrambled down into the valleys before Framsburg, staining the grass with black and brown. A stray child with scruffy hair and scorched garments could be seen; petrified behind a rock, not daring to move. Mew, who had not been idle when he observed this, had crept around to the east of the valley preparing for a wild dash to evacuate this helpless child. He'd have to be quick as the orcs had already sniffed out his scent and were hurrying viciously towards him. His horse leapt over fell logs, ditches and rocks bee-lining it towards the boy. Mew, with his lance at the ready, charged the orcs and sent them scurrying away from the boy. Not wishing to stay after his welcome, Mew hurried the boy onto his horse and sped towards the gate. The watchmen, seeing his peril, opened the gate. The men behind the walls were baffled at its opening: Had allies come to aid them? Had the watchmen given up all hope already and opened the gate for the orcs? They were frightened, yet still stood their ground for they knew orcs would give them no mercy. Yet behold! A man, kingly in stature perched upon a horse, earth brown in colour, rode through the gates, giving the defenders renewed hope. The guards felt inclined to bow to him; a hero they thought, come to aid us in our dire need! Indeed he had. He put the boy on the ground and asked of him his name, "Sindre," he answered then ran off to find his parents. The gate was taking damage; splinters flew off in all directions. With a groan, the gate gave way. A fierce mountain troll leaped into the city; no man stood before him, save Mew. The troll stared down Mew mockingly, then charged him. His horse fled and left Mew staggering on foot. He dropped his lance and drew his sword, 'Valabrandr,' the sword of the Vala. The troll's club came down with a thud, but not before Mew had rolled out of the way behind it. A hoarse cry was heard as Mew's blade penetrated the troll's thick hide and pierced its heart. A flame burnt in Mew's eyes as he stood before the rest of the host, alone. Orcs scrambled around him, and Mew found himself in the middle of a ring of orcs. The tension on their bowstrings released arrows with a twang, but no orc arrow could could challenge his mithril mail. The men of Framsburg weren't a bad bunch and seeing Mew fighting their own battle for them alone was too much for them. They ran back into the fight, cutting straight through the orc's flank and forcing them into a hasty retreat. The screen of war-bats in the skies was torn, great beams of light shone on the battlefield. The orcs fled, climbing over each other in their terror. The battle was over. The defenders beaten back their besiegers to live another day. A man with ruffled hair, caked in mud, approached Mew with a gleam of a smile on his weary face. "You, my lord, are a hero. My men have already named you 'The Bringer of Dawn,'" the speaker looked to the sky and continued, "It looks like they're right." After a long pause he carried on, "I am Tinty, lord of Framsburg; yet in my heart I know I should leave my post and follow my ancestors to the plains of Calenardhon." "I am Mew, not a hero but a keeper of the peace. But alas, the place you speak of is now known as Rohan in their speech, the home of the horse-lords. It seems your destiny lies with me Sick Star Wars reference :P, for I too must go to Rohan in time not so long from now." "It is settled. I will follow you to Rohan whenever you wish to leave for there." Mew stayed in Framsburg long; learning the culture of the people, and teaching them in the arts of greater crafts. He watched Sindre grow up and started training him at a young age. He was quite the sword fighter, never quite able to beat his mentor; but not far off either. The fulfilling of the Prophecy Mew's face was full of anguish and weariness as he looked back along the path, back into the fells of Angmar. Orc companies were abundant, foul odours followed wherever they stepped. Their presence could only mean one thing: the brewing of war. His horse followed him, stumbling through the treacherous mountain paths towards the icy plains beyond. The plains of Forodwaith spread endlessly into the horizon. The skyline was broken only by weather-worn boulders and the terrible mountains to the east. Yes, this land was uninhabited save for few nomadic tribes who did not fear Morgoth's citadel of old, and could bear the intolerable cold and ever shifting weather of the icy plains. It was for Utumno he was heading, the chilled fortress in the northern wastes of Middle-earth. This fortress housed foul and terrible beings, some once fair, tainted and twisted by Morgoth in mind and body. That was, in truth, how the orcs came into being; elves tortured and corrupted by the will of Morgoth. But as a wise man once said: "There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world." The horrors of those beings put anyone off going to these vast, desolate lands. Birds and beasts fled south, towards the little foliage there was in the hills of Angmar and the plains lay lifeless. Leagues upon leagues of land spoilt by wheather and deprived of life. Never had Mew felt so lonely than in these plains of the north. Day after day, camp after camp; he strove onwards. On the fifth day he saw it; a fell tower, all alone. Isolated. Mew stood at the gate and listened; distant screams and terrors to his ears. At long last he braved the gate and entered; loosening his sword in his sheath. He stood on a precipace, on one side the gate, two drops of 500 feet or more to his left and front, and stairs to his right. It is no marvel which way he took, the stairs were the safest way to descend into the fortress of terror. Dark was his descent at the start, silent and still all around him. No breeze was present. No light was lit. Yet Mew knew, he was being watched; his hairs stood on end and his hands were clammy with sweat. At last he could bare it no more and drew his sword. The sword shone, lighting the way for him. All who witnessed the unsheathing of his blade trembled, and scurried into the deepest crook or cranny they could find, howling as they went. Their cries echoed down the ever winding staircase and a cascade of noise erupted in the room below. His feet brought him to a vast hall, littered with the debris and remains of a battle once fought. A stench was aroused in the room from the rotten flesh and crumpled bones. Many fair folk had fallen here, yet more who were not so fair; the servants of Morgoth. But even now, creatures, dark and spoilt in stature, stirred in this grave. Flickers of flames danced on the walls, reanimating the shadows. Drums were beaten, and vile creatures issued out orders. The stamping of the march became more apparent. Many feet were closing in on one objective: Mew. He was not alone. Orcs wielding torches entered the room, but shadows still lingered. No light could fade them. A voice spoke, "You were foolish to come here, master edain." "Nay, I have come to reclaim what is duly mine; the crown of Rohan that was lost in these halls by my father. You keep this totem don't you?" questioned Mew. forwards a while to record historical server events The (First) Battle of Mering Stream The sun shone down over the woods of Mering Stream, birds sung from their lofty branches; cherishing the morning breeze. The proud walls of the fortress-city of Mering Stream stood valiantly along the cliffs, it's banners unfurling in the wind; finely weaved, richly embroided. A symbol of the peak-time of Rohan's glory under the rule of the great King, Mew; The Bringer of Dawn. One of the greatest kings Middle Earth had ever seen. It was rare for any other Kingdom to rival his prowess on the battlefield. He was a legendary commander, skilfully commanding his men and lead them to many victories. But alas, one Kingdom had grown to rival the might of Rohan. Isengard had grown, spreading terror throughout the lands; leaving death and destruction behind, and tales of dread and sorrow ahead. Rohan's army had not yet returned from the wars with Harad in the south and so could not challenge Isengard's force at Helms Deep, Grimslade, Edoras or Aldburg (the chief cities of the realm), and so it was at the King's home of Mering Stream the 2 forces met. The Uruk-Hai of Isengard greatly outnumbered the King's men, but the lack of spears was compensated for by dauntless heroes of Middle Earth. The King of Gondor, Elendil, who had ridden back from Harad to Mering in haste fought there, as did Bearclaw the Ranger of Ithilien, Sindre of Wold and the King of Rohan himself, Mew. The Uruk-filth surrounded the city of Mering Stream, spreading it's forces thin, but with large concentrations at the gate. At the west gate fought Mew and Sindre, riders of the mark, and at the east gate fought King_Elendil and Bearclaw of Gondor. Horns were sounded and captains shouted out orders, but what could only be described as chaos ensued; men ran from gate to gate on errands, the injured limped over to the King's Hall, and projectiles whistled through the air; sending men and orc alike crawling for cover. The gates creaked and moaned as battering rams were forced unto the gate, emitting a shower of splinters. Through sweat and blood the gates were bolstered, but with little hope of standing against the terrors of Isengard. Men swarmed to the gates, defying the Uruks of passage into the city. The fighting was fierce; Joetatoe (Saruman), had sent forth the full power of Isengard for one sole purpose: to end the world of men. Uruk Captains clothed in the armours of their fallen foes led the attack, spurring on their troops to defile the city and it's defenders. One such captain, Flimmflamm, broke through the west gate and pierced the ranks of Mew's men, seeking out the King. His crazed eyes caught sight of the fair Lord of the Mark, and roared a mighty challenge to the King of Rohan. Brandishing his sword, Mew cleaved his way through the mass of Uruk-Hai who were surging through the gate, with his eyes fixed on the Uruk Captain.The captain bid his troops leave them and the duel began. Now Mew was a mighty man, a marvel to look upon in the swift turmoil of combat; he was fast and skilled with a blade. The Uruk pounced first, with his crude scimitar directed at Mew's chest before it was parried away. Lunge after lunge happened as thus with Flimmflamm directing the pace of the combat. Whether Mew anticipated the next move, it matters not. This Uruk was doomed to die ever since he laid eyes on the King of the Mark. A stray spear landed inbetween the two titans. But alas; Flimmflamm dismissed all caution and lent down to grab the spear. Mew's arm spun, bringing his sword into the air and the forcing it into the back of the Uruk's neck. His limp body sprawled accross Mew's feet with a fell screech. His death brought hope to the defending men, but awoke the lust of blood in the attacking Uruk-Hai. One Uruk EzioDiAuditore, went into a killing frenzy after witnessing the demise of his Captain. His bloodcrazed eyes sought out Mew who was already swarmed by 20 odd Uruks. Ezio leaped into the fray, pushing his fellow Uruks aside to get to his 'victim.' With a few swift strokes of Mew's blade, the Uruk's arms fell to the ground, leaving the Uruk with a startled look on his face before Mew followed by slashing his throat. Foul blood surged out of the wound, and his body slumped to the ground. Meanwhile at the west gate Joetatoe and his guard had broken through and pushed the Gondorians back into the centre of the city. Mew sent Sindre and half of his men to reinforce the Gondorian King. And so Joetatoe found himself alone, with his guard slain all around him. Victory was at hand for the Rohirric coalition with Joetatoe cornered against a wall, his death was imminent. No man , be it Wizard or not, could face off against those kind of odds. And so he was slain by Bearclaw, the Ranger of Ithilien in the centre of Mering Stream. Teldestelo The sun shone crimson, blurring the skies with a smear of red. The air was still. Thick. Humid. Beads of sweat were rolling down Mew's brow as his eyes were held by the morgul lord; who was all clad in garments of bulky steel, and bore a serrated scimitar that gleamed with fresh blood. Malice blinded this fell man's mind, a dark power bound this being to his will. A power deemed older than time itself. Indeed, a dangerous foe for a dangerous man. "How dare thee challenge my will?" spat the Morgul Lord of the east. "Your authority doth not rule over these lands. Begone fiend of Morgoth!" replied Mew. "Haha! You have a stout heart, but a mind that would wish its body be marred beyond recognition. I am like no enemy you have faced before Dawn Bringer. No light can conquer me, no darkness can be compared to me." smirked the fiend of Morgoth. "Nevertheless you shall be felled, else I shall die trying." The smirk was wiped off his face when he noticed the sincerity of Mew's words. Had Morgoth not promised him to be feared by all? He had. Doubt seized him and he blew his horn, and summoned his servants. Many hearkened to this call; trolls, orcs and other nameless beasts who dwelt under the shadow of Mordor. Within seconds Mew found himself encircled by legions of orcs, wolves and fierce trolls bred deep in the fells of Mordor. "No such love exists between you and your men. What if they were to learn that you were not strong enough to challenge me alone? Would they fight for you even still? Or turn to serve the deeper power?" "My force has no love for those blessed by the Vala. I shall give you one mercy; choose wisely." "A fair fight." "Hahaha, KILL HIM!" he allowed his troops to swarm past him towards Mew, and merged himself in the crowd. Hiding from the wise and venerable eyes of Mew. Mew drew his sword, raised his shield, and drove himself ito the midst of his enemies. Orc after orc fell to his wrath. The legions wailed, those that fled were slain by their own. Orc was set upon orc, troll unto warg. At last the Morgul lord showed face, rallying his troops, and advanced towards Mew. A host of thousands and thousands of men assailed our hero; it was not looking hopeful for Mew. The host charged. Mew's blade leaped from neck to neck, cleaving a path through his assailers. Minutes passed as thus, arrows hit Mew but marred him not, the Vala had looked down on him that day. But alas, such a blessing could not prevent his imminent defeat; trolls bred in the hills of Mordor, Olog-Hai beat down and crumpled his body. Thump after thump. His body bled. His breath was resiliant, but faint, and worsening. It looked very bleak for Mew, and would have been fatal had it not been for the intervention of an unforseen creature. A very noble creature, and proud. The trolls leaned up as they heard orcs crying "The Eagles! The Eagles are coming!" An eagle clawed at the faces of the Olog-Hai with his majestic talons, sending it fleeing in fright. Gently, the eagle lifted up Mew's limp body and bore him away; but not outside of Mordor for that was not his fate. The eagle bore him deep into Nurnen, to a city who could heal him, but would be benefitted by Mew's presence. A fortress whose accomponying city had been destroyed long ago, yet still clung, alone on the hills upon which it was raised, over an age ago. In this city dwelt a charitable, yet hard pressed people. Such was the heart of these people that they gave when they had nothing. Until now no one had helped them, but this was soon to change. The eagle swooped over the battlements, and lowered Mew into the courtyard. Men rushed out of the keep, falling over eachother as their curiousity spurred them faster. A crowd gathered around the eagle and Mew's crippled body. Evidently they had no idea what to do, the crowd talked amongst eachother trying to come to a conclusion when a person of authority parted the mass of people to see the newcomers. He greeted the eagle, and ordered Mew onto a stretcher to be brought to the healing ward, where he would be tended and well cared for. The eagle left after he saw Mew was in good hands, and returned to his eryie leagues away to the northwest. Many days passed before Mew showed any sign of consciousness, and the healers would have long given up if it hadn't have been for the eagle, whom they took for a good omen. For eagles were said to be the messangers of Manwe. On the 15th day, Mew's eyelids parted and he saw the fair faces of his healers, who had spared him from death. He tried moving but was halted by a sudden sharp pain in his side. "Easy there. We're overjoyed to see you awake. Perhaps in due time you could tell us what happened to you, hmm?" spoke healer. He tried to speak but felt only a fire in his throat, making speech impossible. "Get some rest." .... On the 25th day Mew was fit to walk and speak of his encounters. Everyone stopped what they were doing to listen to all that Mew had to say, for he spoke of legends and tales unheard of in this remote part of Middle Earth. Maidens swooned at the hearing of his brave deeds, warriors of the house were inspired, and the children entertained. After due time he was fully healed, and was brought to the lord of house. His hall was large, and bright in the centre, but shadows clung to the corners of the room, silently sprawling accross the walls. Trophies of war were displayed on the walls, swords, helms and other treasures from the hunt. "Good morn' Mew, may I formally welcome you to my citadel, I am Lord Stelo; I trust my healers have treated you well?" greeted the Lord. "Aye Lord, they have. I am in your debt for this service, if there is anything I can do, you are but to ask." thanked Mew. "We shall see about that later, but may I ask if you needed anything first?" "My sword? It is very dear to me, and is held of higher value than many piles of gold. Of mithril it is wrought, and by the grace of the Vala it is blessed. Is it in your possession?" The lord waved to his servant, who walked into a side-room and came out with a cushion, on top of which was his sword. "Yes we do, and we return it gladly, for many orc necks hath this sword hewn." answered the Lord. "Now we come to disturbing news; Sebrom of Mordor has announced his victory over 'The Bringer of Dawn.' You. The birds tell tales of great grief in the lands of Rohan from which you hail. I.." "By the Vala I will see Sebrom dead! I shall return to the plains of Rohan with his head held aloft, cleaved from his body, and I shall return no sooner than this deed is done." interupted Mew. "I am hopeful that you shall succeed, and be it anything you ask, we shall aid you." returned the Lord Stelo. "I name this citadel Teldestelo, for it is my last hope for the fulfilment of my oath." And just like that Mew vowed never to return to his home until he had defeated Sebrom, lord of Mordor. Category:Players Category:Men